W. Griffin - The Hostage

"Got it."

Castillo nodded and then slowly opened the door to room 677.

There wasn't much light, just a small lamp on the bedside table, over which the stout nurse had draped a blue cloth.

"Did she wake up?" Castillo asked softly.

"She's starting to," the nurse said.

Castillo walked to the bed and looked down at Betty.

She looked gray.

The stout nurse tugged at his arm, and he turned to look at her.

She had a cheap white stackable plastic chair in her hands. Charley had heard-he didn't know if it was true-that they were molded from the recycled plastic of milk cartons and Coke bottles.

"You can't just stand there until she wakes up, senor," the nurse said. "Sit down, put your feet on this, and try to get a little sleep."

How the hell am I going to be able to sleep?

"Muchas gracias."

He sat in the folding chair, put his feet on the plastic chair, and when he was reasonably sure the nurse wasn't watching, put his hand up so that he could touch Betty's shoulder. Castillo opened his eyes.

Jack Britton was standing beside him, extending a coffee mug.

Castillo took the mug as a reflex action.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Quarter to nine," Britton said. "Time for you to change shirts, shave, and head for the cathedral."

"Jesus Christ! I should be in San Isidro. Why the hell didn't you wake me?"

"All you were going to do, Charley, was get in the way in San Isidro," Britton said. "I talked to Santini. He said to let you sleep."

Castillo got up, knocking the plastic chair over as he did.

"Your electric razor and a clean shirt's in the bathroom," Britton said, and walked out of the room.

Castillo looked down at Betty.

Her eyes were open, and she was pale but no longer gray.

"Hello, baby," Castillo said.

Betty made a grunt that could have meant, "Hi."

"How do you feel?"

Betty rolled her eyes, and then touched the bandages on her face and then made grunting sounds that after a moment he understood meant, "Can't talk."

"Sweetheart, you're going to be all right."

Betty pointed to the chair and grunted. When he looked confused, she repeated the grunts.

"I snore?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I love you," Charley said.

Betty nodded.

He bent over her and very gently kissed her on the lips.

More grunts, but this time he easily made the translation: "Wiener schnitzel."

"You took three hits," Castillo said. "You're going to be all right. Either tomorrow or the next day, you're goingto Philadelphia on the Gulfstream. Jack will be with you."

She nodded, then grunted, "Roger?"

"He didn't make it, baby. He went out quick."

Tears ran down her cheeks into the bandages.

Betty pointed to herself, then mimed firing a pistol, and grunted, "Get bastards?"

He shook his head.

She grunted, "Damn!"

"I have to go with the Mastersons," Charley said.

She nodded.

"I don't want to leave you."

She nodded again, then mimed something that after a moment he understood was shaving.

She's telling me to go shave.

He nodded, and walked to the bathroom. As he started to pull the door closed, she made a loud sound, and he quickly turned and looked at her.

She shook her head and pointed to her eyes.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. As he shaved, he could see her watching him in the mirror.

When he'd finished, and had changed his shirt, he went to the bed and looked down at her and ran his fingertips over her forehead.

She raised her balled hand with the thumb extended.

"Oh, Jesus!" he said softly.

She pointed to the door.

He kissed her once more and then turned and walked quickly out of the room.

[ONE] Catedral Metropolitana Plaza de Mayo Buenos Aires, Argentina 0940 25 July 2005 When the three-car convoy carrying Castillo and Corporal Lester Bradley-a leading SIDE car, the embassy BMW, and a trailing SIDE car-approached the rear of the cathedral, Castillo saw that the entire block was ringed with brown-uniformed Gendarmeria National troops armed with submachine guns.

When he and Bradley got out of the embassy car and started for the side door of the church, they were stopped, and it was only after Major Querrina more than a little arrogantly flashed his SIDE credentials at the Gendarmeria major in charge that they were passed inside.

In the corridor just inside the door, there were uniformed Policia Federal officers and men in civilian clothing who Castillo presumed were SIDE agents. They guarded the door to the alcove in which the Mastersons would be seated.

With Bradley on his heels he went through the door to the alcove. Once inside, he could see Masterson's casket, covered by an American flag. At each corner of the casket, two soldiers, one Argentine and the other American, stood facing outward, at Parade Rest, their rifles resting on the ground.

There were people seated in the alcove across the nave, obviously Argentine dignitaries. There were four empty chairs in the front row, which suggested that the President and the foreign minister and their wives-or two other dignitaries-had not yet arrived.

El Coronel Alejandro Gellini of SIDE was standing to one side of the alcove, with another burly, mustachioed man Castillo guessed was one more SIDE officer. Gellini met Castillo's eyes, but there was no nod or other sign of recognition.

Castillo looked again at the absolutely rigid soldiers at the corners of the casket. The Argentines were in a dress uniform that looked as if it dated back to the early nineteenth century. They wore black silk top hats with a ten-inch black brush on the side. They were armed with what looked like Model 98 Mausers, which had been chrome-plated. The Americans were in class A uniforms with white pistol belts. They were holding chrome-plated M-14 rifles on which chrome-plated bayonets had been mounted. The U.S. Army had stopped using the M-14 during the Vietnam war. But the M-16, which replaced it, did not lend itself to the ballet-like Manual of Arms practiced by the Old Guard.

Castillo had the unkind thought that whatever kind of soldiering they had done before they had been assigned to the 3rd Infantry-and to judge from the medals glistening on their tunics, they had heard shots fired in anger-what they were now were actors in a pageant.

He turned and for the first time saw a first lieutenant in an incredibly crisp and precise Old Guard uniform standing stiffly, almost at Parade Rest, in a corner of the alcove.

That beret he's wearing looks like those molded leather hats the Spanish Guardia Civil wear. What did he do, soak it in wax?

And it's not a green beret, or even a tan Ranger beret. Anybody who can stumble through basic training gets to wear what he has on, thanks to the remarkably stupid idea of the chief of staff that putting a beret on any soldier's head turns him into a warrior.

The lieutenant looked at Castillo, but there was no nod nor a hint of a smile.

And all of those medals glistening on his chest are I-Wuz-There medals. Plus, of course, the Expert Infantry badge, which means he's never been in combat. And-why I am not surprised?-he's wearing the ring identifying him as a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point.

More important-he's the officer in charge of a guard detail-why the hell didn't he ask me who I am? Or, if he knows who I am, why didn't he say, "Good morning, sir"?

Castillo walked over to him.

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Good morning, sir."

"I was wondering how much ammunition your men have."

The question surprised the lieutenant.

"Actually, none, sir."

"Why is that?"

"Sir, we're a ceremonial unit."

"You are aware, aren't you, that the man in the casket was murdered?"